


come home to my heart

by rayne_et_al



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayne_et_al/pseuds/rayne_et_al
Summary: Crowley said London was getting stifling, so Aziraphale’s gone and bought him a bloody fucking cottage.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 308
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	come home to my heart

**Author's Note:**

> For my girlfriend, who completed their MA in English and now has ample time to read fanfiction.
> 
> Title is from Lorde's "Supercut"

“Oh, my dear, I wish you could have seen Michael’s face when I asked for a towel,” Aziraphale laughs, cheeks rosy from mirth and three bottles of wine. They’d spent the better part of the evening at the Ritz, having course after course, and now they’re in the back room of the bookshop getting absolutely pissed. As far as occasions to get properly drunk go, avoiding armageddon and giving both Heaven and Hell quite the proverbial finger is absolutely up there. Somewhere around their second bottle of wine Aziraphale had shed his vest, and now, on their third bottle, his decorum has been properly rumpled. He looks eager and open and free, his usual straight back and clasped hands having given way to a happy, wobbly sort of sprawl as he nestles into his armchair and deeper yet into Crowley’s little, longspent heart. Oh, he really does love tipsy Aziraphale. Granted, he loves every Aziraphale, has since some 6,000 years back and a garden and a flaming sword, but well, that’s beside the point. If there even is a point anymore.

Crowley chuckles into his half-empty glass. “So do I. Granted, the rest of your lot didn’t look much better, Angel, especially when I blew hellfire at them.” Except the angels aren’t really “his lot”, not anymore, at least. They don’t have their own sides now; they _are_ their side. He takes a slow sip to cover any soppy business his lips might try to pull.

“Hellfire!” The exclamation is half admonishment and half giddy astonishment. “Oh, I can only imagine,” Aziraphale laughs, shaking his head. He takes a slow sip of his own, eyes getting thoughtful. “My dear,” he says softly, “I do hope— it wasn’t painful being back in Heaven after all this time, was it?”

Crowley blinks, surprised at the question. He would hardly count the sterile room he’d been in as Heaven. Heaven, or the Heaven that he did, on occasion, think back to with a bitter sort of fondness, was nothing like that. Heaven was the feeling of blinding love, the feeling of blinding purpose as he carved the stars with his bare hands. Then again, he isn’t sure that he’s without those feelings even in his Fallen state. He was a failed angel, and in some ways a failed demon as well, but whatever he was, he got to be it with Aziraphale. “Nah, not at all,” he says dismissively. Aziraphale’s eyes still look at him full of a skeptical concern that makes him tingle. “Really, Angel, it wasn’t. I was perfectly fine.” He’s eager to get the angel’s mind off the topic. “How was Hell for you?”

At this, Aziraphale settles back with a little shudder, as if he’s just seen someone dogear a page. “Oh, I didn’t like it at all,” he says emphatically. “It was so filthy and so _cramped_ , Crowley. I don’t know how demons can bear it.” He wrinkles his nose as though his own apartment above the shop isn’t secretly over cluttered with random odds and ends.

“Mm,” Crowley hums in agreement. “It is. ‘M always relieved the moment I’m out of there, really.I’m not sure London feels too different from it nowadays, though. ‘S all a bit stifling. Crowded. Too much.” His drink sloshes in agreement. London has always been busy, of course— it’s London. It’s nothing like during the medieval times, which were literally hellish with thick stretches and disease and festering waste in narrow streets, but it’s still terribly busy. Originally Crowley stayed in London because, as a demon, it was the place to be. Some of his finest works have been in London. The M25, for example, is something Crowley is awfully proud of. And then with the whole Arrangement business and then the Antichrist, London had made sense out of practicality, because while Crowley has never exactly had a preference for London, Aziraphale certainly does, and Crowley has a preference for him.

Aziraphale loves London. He loves the playhouses and the Ritz and St. James’. Crowley enjoys these places too, of course, but that’s mainly because he frequents them with Aziraphale; Crowley isn’t sure his presence necessarily adds anything to Aziraphale’s affinity for them. And then, of course, there’s the bookshop. Aziraphale loves his bookshop as fiercely as Crowley loves his Bentley. The place is positively teeming with the feeling of his love, and that’s why it’s Crowley’s favourite place to be. Sitting in the bookshop is like marinating in Aziraphale’s love, and in such moments Crowley can’t help but sink into it and absorb the feeling as best he can until it feels like Aziraphale loves him too. Loves him improperly, not in the way angels are supposed to love everything, but in the way he loves sushi and fine wine and the bookshop— a true love that exists from base feelings of want and a need, not from a sense of duty or obligation. Loves him the way Crowley loves him. Crowley isn’t a being of love, not anymore, and every bit of love he has defies his Fallen being and still he loves and he loves. He’s so in love with Aziraphale that he doesn’t know where it ends and he begins, and he thinks that no matter the choices he made in any version of his existence, he would have Fallen no matter what, that it must’ve been part of the blasted ineffable plan, because he lives for Aziraphale alone in a way that can only be blasphemous.

As Crowley tipsily reflects in the bookshop, he can’t help but think of the last time he was here. The peels of flame and billowing smoke and the resounding, horrible loss and fear and devastation. He has witnessed torment after torment, pain after pain, has lost himself so many times under the cruel gaze of an unflinching eternity, but it was always Aziraphale that grounded him, that led him back to himself. Aziraphale is the moon to his tide, and now after everything he is only more sure that where Aziraphale is is where he belongs. He pushes himself deeper into the sofa cushions with a fierce sort of determination. No, there’s nowhere else for Crowley.

~ ~ ~

6,000 years is an awfully long time to know someone, and Crowley thinks he knows Aziraphale pretty well by now. One such tidbit of knowledge is that nothing in the world, not tortoises or sloths or snails, or the arms of a watched clock, or the traffic during rush hour on the M25, moves as slowly as Aziraphale. Crowley has, of course, known this for a while, whether from observation or rather ache inducing remembrances back to SoHo, 1967.

Still. Crowley had thought something would be different after the whole “we saved the world and gave a resounding “fuck you” to both our lots and are on our own side now” bit, but apparently he, a bloody demon, is still too optimistic. It’s not like he expected some cheesy music to swell up out of nowhere and for the angel to rush across a field of flowers and into his arms. But, well, there had been hand holding on the bus on the way back from Tadfield, and while Crowley isn’t sure when he became a simpering school girl, more of that would be very welcome. Or even just talking about it. Some sort of acknowledgement. Crowley’s been waiting for some 6,000 years and yeah, he might be hellspawn, but he thinks he could, potentially, deserve at least that.

In Crowley’s most practical and realistic expectations, he had at least figured he and Aziraphale would spend much more time together. After all, they’d no longer have to pretend that they’re not enjoying each other’s company or sneak around looking over their shoulders, and after the world is almost quite literally obliterated, one does want to delight in the things that make it so worth saving. And yet. Every time Crowley rings Aziraphale up in the week after getting sloshed in the back of the bookshop, the angel has some excuse as to why they can’t see each other. “I’m afraid I have some things to get sorted out, dear boy, but another time, I’m sure.” After half a dozen of these vague excuses, Crowley gets the message and resolutely stays home and keeps from calling him, instead just licking his wounds and threatening his houseplants in a manner that even Caligula would find a bit much.

This sulking does not, however, keep Crowley from answering his mobile between its first and second ring when Aziraphale finally calls him nearly a week and a half since they’ve last seen each other. Demons are, of course, petty creatures (though not nearly as much as angels), but Crowley is awfully and pitifully in love and therefore cannot be held accountable for his actions. “Angel,” he drawls out in greeting, stuffing all his enthusiasm into a much too small box, as any box would be when faced with 6,000 years worth of yearning, and stomping on it until it somewhat closes.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says, making Crowley’s wretched little traitor of a heart sing. “If you’re amenable, I thought you and I might go for a little drive tomorrow.” If he’s amenable. Crowley would laugh if he wasn’t so relieved at the prospect of seeing the angel.

“Yeah, alright,” he says slowly, as if he has to consider it at all. “Sounds like a plan.”

That’s the end of the conversation, and Crowley finds himself waiting outside of the bookshop the next morning. He has no idea where they’re going, and he’s more than intrigued. Aziraphale is hardly a fan of his driving style, quite the opposite, and he’s certainly never gone out of his way to ask if they could go for a drive. All the past times that Crowley has suggested that they go off anywhere, whether it’s to the stars or anywhere you want, it’s gone rather poorly for him. His curiosity now mingles with an uncomfortable churning sensation in his stomach, and he strums his long fingers against the Bentley’s steering wheel as he waits.

After a few minutes, the car door opens. “Crowley! Good morning,” Aziraphale beams as he folds himself into the passenger’s seat. Crowley notes that he doesn’t have a picnic basket, and now he’s truly out of guesses as to what they’ll be doing today.

“Morning,” Crowley greets, peering at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. “Where are we going?”

“Never you mind,” Aziraphale smiles back, all innocence. “I’ll tell you where to go. I’ve brought directions.” With that he pulls a bloody map out from under his jacket and stealthily unfolds it with a soft wobbling sound. Crowley groans, bringing his forehead to rest against the steering wheel. The angel is terrible with technology— forget GPS, Crowley isn’t sure Aziraphale even knows about Mapquest yet. If Crowley is lucky the map will be from the past hundred years.

“Oh, hush, you,” Aziraphale chides, his voice still unwaveringly happy. Crowley sighs, but obligingly shifts the Bentley into gear, and then they’re off.

~~~

The drive out of London is far from pleasant. Aziraphale, it seems, cannot both melodramatically critique Crowley’s driving (which is just _rich_ coming from someone who can’t drive) and navigate at the same time, and they miss their exit twice. “Angel, if you just tell me where we’re going,” Crowley grits for the half dozenth time, and for the half dozenth time Aziraphale refuses, though each time he does he’s a bit more frazzled.

Once they’re off the highway, however, things begin to look up. As the countryside opens up around Crowley, he can’t help but relax into it, the tension of not knowing where they’re going subsiding more and more the farther in the Bentley goes. Aziraphale seems to notice the shift in demeanor because he holds Crowley’s profile in such a gentle gaze that Crowley doesn’t have to see to feel. A muscle in his jaw twitches under the look, but he pretends not to notice.

After about an hour and a half of driving, Aziraphale finally tells him to turn left in the sort of decisive and anticipatory way that tells Crowley that they’re arriving at their destination. Only it seems as though Aziraphale has misread the map yet again because Crowley finds himself turning into what appears to be a driveway. “Er, angel,” he starts, but Aziraphale cuts him off with a small wave of his hand.

“We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be, my dear.”

Where they’re exactly supposed to be is … a cottage. It is, objectively, a very lovely cottage, if not a quintessential English cottage, the kind that graces calendars and travel brochures and Microsoft screensavers; the kind that always makes up the quaint little villages in the grandma telly Saturday night murder mystery shows that Crowley adores (Aziraphale pretends to be above such television shows, and television in general, though Crowley can always count on one such program featuring a priest to draw him in). All of these wonderful points about the cottage doesn’t stop Crowley from furrowing his brow at Aziraphale as he slowly pulls up to it, however. “What are we doing here?”

Aziraphale gives him a smile so bright that it must refract off his sunglasses. “Come on, park here and let’s go have a proper look.”

And so there Crowley is, standing in the gravel driveway and hanging back hesitantly as Aziraphale oohs and aahs over the exterior. “It looks even better in person than it did on the real estate posting!” Aziraphale says appreciatively, turning to smile at him.

Real estate posting? Crowley frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile softens, becomes one of those soft and soppy ones that Crowley cannot bear and yet also cannot get enough of, bloody masochist that he is. “The other night, you had mentioned London feeling a bit like Hell nowadays, with the crowds and whatnot, and well, I think the South Downs might be just the thing. It may be time for a change of pace, don’t you think? I— well, you know real estate agents, they’re something thought up by your lot, or well okay, I suppose they aren’t all so bad, but the lady in charge of this listing was rather insistent that this would be off the market any day now, that it was all rather _urgent_ , so I might have, uh,” Aziriphale starts to trail off apologetically. “Well, I might have … bought it. But obviously, my dear, if you don’t like it then we’ll put it right back up for sale and have it all over and done with in a jiffy! I mean, well, with that turnaround time, people might think the place is haunted, but well, no matter.” He chuckles a bit nervously, his hands coming together to fiddle with each other in the way he finds soothing.

Crowley feels as though he’s been hit upside the head with a cast iron frying pan. Hit upside the head with a cast iron frying pan, dragged down the bloody gravel drive, and run over by the Bentley about half a dozen times. He said London was getting stifling, _so Aziraphale’s gone and bought him a bloody fucking cottage_. A cottage in the South Downs, a cottage that’s over an hour away from London. From _him_.

_We’re our own side._

Crowley swallows and tries to stabilize his voice. “Er, this is very kind, Angel,” he says as smoothly as he can with a tongue that seems to have been replaced with lead. “But I’m not sure this is necessary. London is perfectly adequate, thank you.”

Aziriphale sighs gently. “But Crowley, you don’t even really like London.”

“What? Of course I do! If— the South Downs doesn’t have the Ritz, or, or St. James’.” He’s scrambling for things to cite when all he wants to say is that the South Downs doesn’t have Aziraphale, the only thing that could truly make a place ever matter to him. Aziripahle shakes his head slightly, smile still ever so fond. “While those are wonderful points, my dear, they would still be within reach for an occasional visit. After all, we’ve seen to it that London is hardly going anywhere. And I’m sure there will be lovely little restaurants here, tea shops and pubs, that sort of thing, and I’m sure there are ducks to be found in the South Downs as well.”

Crowley can’t believe his ears. Actually, he _can_ believe his ears, and that somehow makes it so, so much worse. “Right,” he says slowly, yellow eyes prickling behind his shades. “Right. Of course, how silly of me. Yes, I’ll pop up to London occasionally, go to the Ritz and go feed the ducks at St. James’ occasionally, might even go and see you, _occasionally_.” He can feel his voice getting louder, his words leaving him faster, and it’s messy and he hates it and he keeps going on anyway because he can’t stop. “Nevermind that for the first time in six fucking thousand years we can finally be seen together, finally see each frequently and freely, no, no, let’s do it occasionally! Once in a blue moon!” For Aziraphale not to love him the way Crowley does is something he can live with, _ha_ s been living with for his entire existence on Earth, but fool that he was, he’d really thought they were at friends. Best friends, better friends than this. He sniffs and scuffs his shoe against the loose gravel of the driveway. “I suppose you’ll want a lift back to London? Or maybe you’ve got someone else lined up to give you a ride instead?”

Aziraphale just stares at him. His face would be convincingly blank if not for the slight crease between his eyebrows and the fact that Crowley, even now, knows him better than that. “Are you quite done now?” he asks evenly. Crowley gives a curt nod, looking off into some distant astral void that is conveniently situated right above Aziraphale’s right shoulder.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, with the exasperation of someone who doesn’t know why on earth they actually have to state something that must be incredibly obvious. “Crowley, look at me.” Crowley tears his gaze begrudgingly from The Void, which had been gazing back quite flirtatiously, he might add, and looks at him. Aziraphale swells up a bit, as if mustering up all of his angelic patience, and starts again. “Crowley, _dearest_ , the cottage is for _us_.”

Crowley blinks. The Void blinks. “I’m sorry, what?” All the bite is gone from his voice now, leaving it sounding rather hollow.

Aziraphale heaves another sigh, in his “oh, you silly old serpent” sort of way, his blue eyes crinkling slightly as a tenderness he can’t fight ebbs its way through them. “Do you think after everything we’ve been through that I could ever bear to be apart from you?” _Yes, actually, quite often_ , says the voice inside Crowley’s head, though his lips, slightly ajar, remain mercifully mute. “I know I’ve been rather impulsive, my dear, but well, it was such a new feeling for me and I just, well, I got carried away with it, I suppose. It’s not that we couldn’t live above the bookshop, but it’s an awfully small space, and well,” he crinkles his nose slightly, “your flat isn’t exactly... _homey_ , my dear. And well, all you said about London, I do think you’re quite right. This sort of place is much better for settling down.”

Settling down. _Settling down._ The cast iron frying pan is returning for an encore. “You … you want to live with me?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Well, yes. I thought we were …” he presses his lips together, now beginning to look distressed. “Do you not?”

“That’s, that’s not what I’m saying, I just,” Crowley isn’t sure what he’s saying. “I’m just surprised, is all.” Aziraphale nods like he understands, but still looks like a souffle close to crumbling, and Crowley desperately wants to turn this around. “Why don’t— let’s go in, yeah? Have a look at the place.” He twitches slightly, feeling embarrassed like he’s offering to carry Aziraphale over the bloody threshold, but then Aziraphale’s face clears and Crowley feels himself relax too, if only slightly, the resounding waves of _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_ still very much there but now he’s bobbing in it like a fishing lure versus, say, drowning in it violently.

Aziraphale fumbles around in his pocket for the key and then makes his way to the front door. Crowley follows, or at least his legs do— mentally he’s still not sure he’s following at all. Because apparently Aziraphale didn’t buy _him_ a cottage, he bought _them_ a cottage, because he wants to _settle down_ and Crowley’s flat isn’t _homey_.

The front door opens into a cozy mudroom and then a hallway, stairs on the left and an entrance to a sitting room to the right. It’s a spacious room, full of natural light, and rustic beams line the ceiling. There are windows at both ends of it, and Crowley can make out bits of a garden through the farther set of windows. He swallows. It is, of course, a coincidental garden, or rather, he’s sure most cottages have one. He’s never told Aziraphale about his plants— no, he can’t possibly know. He walks over to the windows curiously and takes a better look. The garden is beautifully done, but there’s still plenty of room for Crowley to add his own touch, and his fingers tingle at the thought.

“You’ve always liked your gardens, haven’t you,” Aziraphale says from behind him. And yes, Crowley has, from the very start. He turns to the angel, who is standing a few feet behind him. “Will it make do?”

Crowley swallows. “Er, yeah,” He clears his throat. “It’ll … do.”

Aziraphale smiles at this apparently glowing review, and begins to walk towards the doorway that leads into the kitchen. “I think it’s quite cozy, don’t you, my dear? It’s just the right size for us, really. Let’s have a look at the rest of the first floor, and then we can go upstairs and see the bedroom. I’m quite excited to see the en-suite, there’s a tub!”

Crowley, who had begun to follow after Aziraphale, freezes. “What?”

“A tub, my dear. Clawfoot.”

“No, no, the other thing.” Crowley waves a hand in the air like he’s engaged in combat with a particularly annoying fly. “You said...a bedroom. _Sssssingular_.” His hissing is slipping out in his panic, and he feels as though he’s about to slip away with it.

Aziraphale, who must actually be an expert in psychological warfare and has waited around 6,000 years to show Crowley the range of his talent, seems nonplussed. “Well, yes. I didn’t think there would much need for a second one, it’s not like we’ll be having many overnight guests, will we?” His brow crinkles slightly at the last part, like he’s genuinely asking if Crowley has secretly been hiding a stash of old chums who will come hurtling down to the South Downs any moment now.

“What, no, of course not, no— that’s not the point, Angel!” Crowley doesn’t know how Aziraphale is acting so calm. He knows that the angel doesn’t sleep as often as he does, but surely he’d like a place where that’s an option should he ever want to.

Aziraphale’s concern and confusion smooth out into a sort of understanding. “Oh, my dear. Forgive me if I’ve assumed anything.” Aziraphale comes to stand in front of Crowley and takes his hand. “While I did think we would be sleeping together, we really can just be sleeping together,” he says earnestly. “While I know that many mortals consummate their love with, well, acts of a sexual nature, it’s certainly nothing I _need_. While I, well, I do admit I see the … appeal of it with you, I’m already so satisfied with everything, dear, being together, being with you, oh it’s already more than enough.”

Crowley stares down at Aziraphale’s hand covering his own. He can hear his heartbeat and it’s deafening and also not deafening enough, because he can still hear the phrases “consummate their love” and “I see the appeal of it with you” spinning through his head.

Aziraphale seems to take the silence as an invitation to continue. He clears his throat, thumb gently stroking the side of Crowley’s hand, which trembles slightly under the touch in fear and in hope, in anticipation and trepidation, in want and need and the mortifying horror of having want and need in the first place. He’s buried his wants and needs for so long, thrown himself into meeting Aziraphale’s wants and needs in hopes that it’ll be enough for him, for both of them— _you move too fast for me, Crowley_ — but now he can’t even comprehend what Aziraphale’s wants and needs are.

“I know that moving in together is what some might consider to be a big step,” Aziraphale says gently, his thumb still valiantly attempting to soothe away at Crowley’s skin. “But you said it yourself. It’s been 6,000 years, Crowley, 6,000 years of waiting, and I don’t want a second more of it now. I want to be with you every single day for the rest of eternity.”

Every fibre of Crowley’s being is screaming for him to get the hell out of there before he does something that he’ll regret. He pulls his hand away, pretending he doesn’t notice how much it’s shaking. “Becausssse w-we’re friendsssss,” he says, or does he beg? He backs up, tripping slightly on the plush area rug beneath their feet, and stumbles back against the wall, because Aziraphale must be in collusionwith this bloody cottage and its bloody rugs and its bloody walls.

Aziraphale’s face looks slightly pained now, and he’s stepping towards Crowley again, and Crowley thinks that actually, on second thought, going back to Hell could be quite nice and if a hole were to open right below his feet, that would be tickety-fucking-boo.

“Crowley,” the angel starts, and Crowley’s face contorts.

“Please, please don’t, Angel.” Crowley’s eyes scrunch up behind his sunglasses, desperate to shut Aziraphale out. He wonders if he should miracle in a bagpipe player or ten,— one of his finest works, bagpipers— wonders if even that would be enough to drown Aziraphale out, and he really does have to drown him out because he can’t bloody handle this— can’t handle the sick lurch of hope that he knows can’t possibly belong to him and won’t do him any good; can’t handle being pressed against some wall and having his little black heart broken with some careless, well meaning words.

And then Aziraphale is in front of him, nearly chest to chest with him, and is removing the sunglasses from Crowley’s face with such a horrible gentleness that Crowley feels himself flinch. “Crowley,” the angel says again, now more insistently. “Crowley, look at me.” His hands go to encircle Crowley’s wrists like he knows the demon is seconds away from disappearing like smoke in the wind. Crowley swallows and cracks open his eyes, never being one to refuse Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks raw and determined, his guardian of the Eastern Gate, oh Crowely has loved him desperately from the very start, and it takes all of Crowley’s strength to not shut his eyes again.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice is low. “You must know that I love you.”

A burst of pained laughter ruptures from Crowley like a high note of a violin piercing through the air. “Of course you _love_ me, you’re an _angel_. I _t’ssss what you do_. You have no _choice_.” Lord, Satan, Someone, help him, his legs feel like they’re about to give way any second.

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open slightly, and he looks so disoriented that perhaps the cast iron frying pan has decided it’s in the mood for a trilogy. “Is that what you—,” Aziraphale falters, his mouth closing, then opening, then closing again. And then, “Crowley, no. I’m _in lov_ e with you.”

“No,” Crowley breaths out reflexively. His eyes dart up to Aziraphale’s for the first time. They’re like portals to a warm and turbulent sea, and oh, Crowley really doesn’t know how he hasn’t discorporated yet.

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale answers, holding his gaze resolutely. “Crowley, I— I know I haven’t always been the best at handling this. I was so scared for so long.” At this, Aziraphale’s eyes slide down as if he’s ashamed. “I suppose … I’ve been living with this love for so long now that I didn’t— oh, my dear, I truly didn’t know that you didn’t know.” His eyes are back upon Crowley’s now, blue orbs glistening. “You’ve been so patient with me, my love, you’ve been so good to me and so patient with me, and I— I understand if I’ve taken too long, if I’m too late … .”

Aziraphale starts to withdraw, his grip loosening around Crowley’s wrists. He’s going back into his little shell and Crowley isn’t going to let it happen this time, not now. Something tells him that if he doesn’t seize this moment, it may truly never come again, and a newly won eternity is a terribly long time for something to never happen. His hands fly up to catch Aziraphale’s as they pull away. He’d really been aiming for Aziraphale’s wrists, and this is awfully intimate, but it’ll have to do. “No,” he says, voice shaky and low, so heavy under the weight of 6,000 years worth of repression that it makes Aziraphale look up again with an expression that Crowley can’t help but recognize.

“Aziraphale, I—,” he clears his throat, searching within himself for the right words, afraid of fucking this up. “It’s been 6,000 years,” he rasps, mouth slightly choking on the earnesty. “I’ve loved you for 6,000 years, been in love with you for 6,000 years, and even without a single word from you I will love you for 6,000 more, for 6 million more. There is no such thing as too late.”

And then Aziraphale is kissing him. I

t is not, technically speaking, the best kiss he’s ever had, except it also is, because it sure as hell is the only kiss he’s ever really wanted. It’s Aziraphale, bloody hell, it’s Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s lips are clumsy with an eagerness that makes Crowley ache. Crowley is in such a stunned stupor that he doesn’t remember to kiss back until Aziraphale is starting to pull away. Crowley’s hands leave Aziraphale’s to knot themselves in the fabric of his vest, and then he’s hauling Aziraphale closer and kissing him properly. Aziraphale gives a little gasp and Crowley takes the opportunity to tilt his face to the side and deepen the kiss, and hell, he makes a small gasp of his own as their mouths slide together in earnest. Aziraphale tastes of heavily sugared tea and it’s intoxicating, as is the way his hands have found their way to settle upon Crowley’s hips, palms pressing a delicious heat into him despite the layers that separate their skin.

Kissing Aziraphale feels disorientingly new and achingly familiar all at once. It’s like hearing a beautiful tune you heard only once before, years and years ago, a shock of rediscovery and an overwhelming wave of nostalgia. It is longing and it is relief, it is to change and to remain. Crowley’s tongue brushes against Aziraphale’s lower lip, and the way the angel opens up for him is the closest thing to divinity Crowley has felt in ages.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale says, words coming out like little puffs of air between their mouths. “If you’d like, we could perhaps continue the tour and go see the bedroom?”

Crowley swallows thickly. “Are you— it’s not too fast?”

Aziraphale gives him a coy sort of smile, his eyes shining sincerely. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect.”

“Ngk.” Crowley flinches at the soppy sentiment but doesn’t refute it. He clears his throat. “Well. You lead the way, Angel.” And so Aziraphale does, up the stairs and down the hall, Crowley following closely behind, legs somehow both leaden and boneless. He seemingly exists in harsh juxtapositions today, and yet he has never felt more himself.

The cottage’s single bedroom is a very reasonable size, with a large, plush looking bed, and a fireplace that promises cozy winters ahead. Large windows look out over the garden— it’s a gorgeous view. The wallpaper, however … .

Crowley scrunches up his nose and looks to Aziraphale, who’s divesting himself of his vest. “Well, it’s certainly your taste.” Aziraphale laughs, draping his vest over the back of a rocking chair in the corner and moving to undo his bowtie now. “I never said we couldn’t redecorate, my dear. Though I was under the impression you liked my taste.”

Crowley’s cheeks have the audacity to redden, and then Aziraphale is stepping over and gently sliding Crowley’s jacket off his shoulders. Before it can hit the floor, Crowley’s lips are upon his again. Aziraphale makes a low noise of approval, his hands flying to the front of Crowley’s shirt to fumble with his buttons. Aziraphale makes quick work of them, sending the shirt to join the jacket on the floor, and then his hands are traversing the bare plane of Crowley’s chest. “ _Angel_ ,” he murmurs breathlessly, and he’s answered by a small push.

Crowley’s back hits the bed, and he scoots farther back and props himself half up on his elbows. His naked chest heaves up and down, and in his wide legged sprawl the strain of his Effort against the snug denim of his jeans is clear as day.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale marvels quietly, looking at Crowley the way he does a particularly rare manuscript, only no, no, this is so much better and brighter, and if Crowley had any decency he would tear his eyes from the adoring gaze but no, his decency was left somewhere on the driveway scattered amongst the gravel.

Crowley swallows as Aziraphale puts a knee onto the bed and leans over him. “Are you sure?” he asks softly.

“Am I sure?” Aziraphale gives a small, giddy sort of exhale. “My dear, _I bought us a cottage_. I’m more than sure.” And then he’s on top of Crowley and gently pressing him into the mattress, one leg coming to rest between Crowley’s. The slight pressure makes Crowley let out a small groan as he rolls his hips up in search of more, and bloody hell, he can feel Aziraphale’s own hardness against his thigh.

Crowley reaches up to do away with Aziraphale’s shirt. “Clothes, you’re always wearing too many bloody clothes.” Aziraphale lowers his head to press slow, open mouthed kisses to Crowley’s neck, and then bites down softly, teeth applying a delicious amount of pressure as Crowley impatiently tugs at his shirt buttons.

“Careful,” he warns against the tender skin of Crowley’s neck. “I rather like this shirt.” Crowley moans in response as Aziraphale gives the flesh a soft suck. He’s half tempted to pull at Aziraphale’s shirt again if only to be treated to more bites, but no, better not— the angel is rather persnickety about his clothes.

At last the troublesome garment is off, and Crowley’s hands relish in exploring the soft, warm flesh they find. The solid weight of the angel above him is unreasonably comfortable, and he pulls him closer desperately. Aziraphale moans into his neck. “Pants, can I take off your pants?” Aziraphale asks eagerly, one hand already undoing Crowley’s fly.

“Hell yes, Angel, please.”

Aziraphale pulls back and sits back on his heels, wrestling Crowley’s skin tight jeans off his legs as though they’re Jacob. “And _I’m_ the impractical dresser,” he mutters after finally pulling the jeans completely. Whatever disdain he holds for Crowley’s fashion forwardness seemingly dies when his eyes come to rest upon Crowley’s erection, his underwear having come off with his tight pants. His cock is fully hard now and lying flush against his stomach. “Oh, _Crowley_.” Crowley swears his cock twitches at the lust filled reverence in Aziraphale’s voice.

“Don’t get all idolatrous on me now, Angel.” Aziraphale palms him experimentally and Crowley swears.

“As if anyone could be as blasphemous as you, my love,” the angel answers, and then finds a much more novel use for his mouth as his head dips down and he licks a firm stripe up Crowley’s cock.

“ _OhfuckingChrist,_ ” Crowley gasps, as if to prove Aziraphale’s point. Aziraphale gives a small hum of satisfaction, and then takes the tip of Crowley’s cock between his lips and carefully sucks. Crowley’s fingers dig into the bedsheets, clawing desperately for something to hold onto. Aziraphale swirls his tongue around the head, already wet with precum, like he’s licking an ice cream spoon clean, and the dirty thoroughness of it is driving Crowley insane.

Aziraphale gives another small suck, his hand now firmly holding the base of Crowley’s cock. “You know, my dear,” he says, between teasing little sucks and licks, “I think it would be quite lovely if you held my hair.”

At this Crowley gives a soft moan and carefully threads his fingers through the angel’s curls. His hair is as soft as the wing that first covered him 6,000 years ago, and now he’s allowed to touch, to enjoy, and there’s nothing like it, and then Aziraphale’s mouth is sinking down to encompass Crowley’s cock fully and all thoughts go out the window.

Crowley can’t help but tilt his hips up slightly, body too eager to get deeper into the wet warmth of Aziraphale. “F-f-fuck, Angel,” he praises shakily. Aziraphale gives a low hum of pleasure, the vibrations traveling up the length of Crowley’s cock to form a pool of molten heat and desire in the pit of his stomach. The sensation grows and grows as Aziraphale continues to lavish kisses and licks and sucks upon him. Finally it’s too much— Crowley can’t trust himself not to come if Aziraphale keeps this up, and there’s something he wants more, something he previously thought he’d ever be able to ask for.

Crowley tugs gently at Aziraphale’s hair, and the angel rises off his cock with wet _pop_. “My dear?” he asks Crowley. His lips are read and full, his eyes slightly glazed, and oh, Crowley wants and wants and wants.

“I—,” Crowley’s voice is rough and sounds foreign to his ears. “Angel, I want you inside me.”

Aziraphale’s glassy eyes widen and clear as they’re taken over by something seemingly between determination and awe. “A-are you sure? Crowley, I’ve, I’ve never … ” He comes up to settle gently over Crowley’s prone body, pressing a warm and firm palm against Crowley’s cheek. Crowley leans into the touch, letting out a shaky breath.

“Neither have I,” he says, yellow eyes finding Aziraphale’s. He’s never seen the appeal of sex with humans. But oh, if he hasn’t spent many a night having half guilty thoughts about the feeling of the angel pushing into him, the feeling of the angel filling him up with a thick cock and strong hands and love—- the fantasies read like the back cover of a harlequin novel, the kind that Aziraphale insists he’s above but will secretly thumb through anyway when no one is looking.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, the breath starting out surprised and then ending in a sort of understanding that Crowley never knew himself possible of withstanding, let alone enjoying. Aziraphale leans down and captures Crowley in a slow, hot kiss that leaves Crowley writhing upwards into him. “Well,” Aziraphale says as he pulls away slightly, “I have, um, done some reading up on this subject.”

“Reading up,” Crowley echoes weakly, watching as Aziraphale settles back to finally take off his own pants. The angel is wearing silk boxers, because of course he is, but hell does the silky sheen flatter the thick outline of his erection. Aziraphale’s thumbs settle in the waistband and he gives Crowley a searching look. The demon nods back, breath already bated, and then Aziraphale is taking them off.

Aziraphale has always been the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen, but Crowley never, never, thought he could become even more beautiful. And yet the impossible is possible. Aziraphale’s cock is thick and curved, its head a lovely blush colour and weeping against the soft curve of his stomach. “Oh, Angel.”

Aziraphale gives him a bashful smile, cheeks pink and eyes half lidded, and oh, Crowley never stood a chance, did he.

Aziraphale repositions himself so that he’s kneeling between Crowley’s spread legs. He casts a purposeful look down at his right hand and suddenly his fingers are slicked and glistening. “Let me know if anything hurts,” he says, low and earnest, and then the tip of his middle finger ghosts over the pucker of Crowley’s hole. A high whimper of anticipation breaks free from Crowley, and Aziraphale goes to grasp the base of Crowley’s cock with his left hand. The light touches slowly give way to firmer presses and then Aziraphale’s finger begins working its way inside with a well timed stroke up Crowley’s cock. Crowley gasps as his eyes open wide, his body jerking up, eager to take Aziraphale in.

Aziraphale bends his head and presses a light kiss to Crowley’s upper thigh. “Relax for me, my darling,” he soothes. Crowley, never one to deny his angel, takes a deep breath in, feeling his eyes fall closed as he exhales. Aziraphale murmurs praise against his thigh, then his hip bone, all the while his finger entreating gently into Crowley until it’s fully in.

The single finger remains still for a while as Aziraphale waits for Crowley to fully adjust around him, and then it slowly begins to move. “Oh, oh fucking hell, _Angel_.” Crowley’s voice rapidly giving way to nothing short of a warble.

“You’re doing so beautifully, my love, oh Crowley, you already feel so good just like this, darling, so good.” The heart wrenching praise and kisses and the hand around his cock, it all continues deliciously as one finger becomes two, becomes three, and Aziraphale is undoing and rebuilding Crowley under his touch, _a hundred visions and revisions_ , and then Crowley is begging for it with his broken voice and unfurled body and Aziraphale is pulling his fingers out carefully and pressing his hips against Crowley.

Aziraphale strokes his cock with his slicked fingers and lines himself up with Crowley’s entrance. “Crowley,” he says, a promise and a prayer, and then he’s slowly pushing inside.

The white hot pressure is like nothing Crowley’s ever felt, and what an amazing thing to exist in a body for 6,000 years and still experience new things. He forces his legs open even more, wills himself to relax. His brow furrows slightly at the foreignness of feeling himself stretch and then Aziraphale is there, kissing the worried skin softly, hovering above him, his lower half completely still. “Does it hurt, should I stop?”

Crowley shakes his head emphatically and wraps his arms around the angel, hands pressing into Aziraphale’s lower back and willing him forward. “Don’t you dare, Angel, don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise and then he’s letting himself fall into Crowley slowly and completely. Crowley has never felt so open and receptive, maybe only with Her in the very beginning, but no, Aziraphale is nothing like Her— he’s warm and he’s present and he’s here, he loves Crowley and Crowley loves him in return, never as an answer to the love but a love of his own, completely and effortlessly.

“Are you okay?” Aziraphale asks, his head resting in the crook of Crowley’s neck.

“Yes,” Crowley rasps. “You can move, if you’d like.” Then, after a beat, “I love you.”

Aziraphale raises his head to meet Crowley’s ear with his lips. “I love you, wholly and irrevocably and always,” he whispers tenderly, and then he moves, pulling back slightly and then thrusting in as though he’s punctuating his point.

“A-Aziraphale,” Crowley pants, tipping his head back. He’s answered by another thrust, this one stronger and more sure. “Oh fucking hell, _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale’s thrusts build up, more and more confidently as Crowley moans his name, and then whatever pleasure the demon has been receiving is put to shame as the angel hits something in him that makes him see the stars he created in a different lifetime.

“ _Angel! There, Ange_ l!”

Aziraphale is thrusting into him in earnest now, intent on hitting that spot over and over until Crowley breaks. Crowley digs his nails into Aziraphale’s back and wraps his legs around him, and the angel bites down into the crook of his neck. It’s nearly too much and yet still not enough, and all Crowley can do is clamber to take all that he can as his voice betrays him and his body is left a shaking mass of desperation.

Whatever desperation Crowley is feeling, Aziraphale seems to be taken over by it as well. His thrusts are growing increasingly rough, as if he can’t get deep enough. “Fuck, _Crowley_ ,” the angel growls out as the demon’s hips arch up to meet him. “Fuck, you’re so good.” The angel never swears, and hell, if Crowley wasn’t on the edge before then he sure is now. He lets out a high whimper that mingles with the obscene sounds of skin against skin.

Aziraphale seems to know what the whimper means without Crowley ever having to say a word— his hand finds its way between their bodies and takes a hold of Crowley’s aching cock.

“F-fuck, 'Z-ziraphale, I’ll— .” Crowley’s body rocks desperately, swinging between taking the angel’s cock deeper and rutting into his hand.

“Me too,” the angel pants, slamming himself into Crowley again and again, his body shaking. “Crowley, please, come for me.” And then the white hot pressure crescendos over Crowley’s form, a supernova of physical sensation and emotion, and Crowley is coming all over their stomachs with a stuttering cry.

Whatever restraint the angel had been practicing up to this point is completely broken now; he dentangles himself from Crowley, his hands gripping down tightly on Crowley’s hips and pulling him up as he fucks into him. Then the thrusts become smaller and shorter and Aziraphale’s face opens up, a sky parting for the heavens, and with a soft cry he comes inside Crowley. His body falls down upon Crowley, exhausted, their naked forms folding into each other in a way so perfect that their bodies must have been cut from the same design.

~~~

Crowley isn’t sure how long they’ve been laying there, a sticky tangle of limbs. All he knows is Aziraphale’s slow breaths against his neck, the tickle of soft curls against his jaw, and the great heaviness of his eyelids.

“Might take a nap, if that's alright,” he murmurs sleepily. He feels Aziraphale shift against him to nuzzle deeper into his neck.

“Of course it’s alright,” the angel replies, words warm against his skin. “It’s our home, after all. Well, that is,” he pulls back slightly to look at Crowley, “if you’d like it to be.”

Crowley gives him a sleepy smile and leans to kiss the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. “It is our home.”

And so he falls asleep on their newly christened bed, Aziraphale’s weight on top of him, constant and warm. They’ll continue their tour later, look at the claw foot tub, check out the garden. For now, there is this, and all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> The line "visions and revisions" is from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this! This is the first work I've written, and any kudos/comments would mean so much.


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